One year, four months and five days

Sitting here with a BL smoothie in hand getting ready to write up a blog post, I decided to look back in the archives to figure out when I need to start preparing for the blog's one-year anniversary.  Come to find out, I'm four months and five days past the one-year.  Since it's never too late to celebrate, happy birthday blog!

Now, on to business . . .

I ended up in Cooper Landing this past week for a work get-together.  Since I've heard there's good fishing around there, The Wife and I made plans with a coworker of mine, Emily, and her husband, Derek, to rent a cabin for a couple days and fish some of the tourist holes along the Kenai.  Normally, I refrain from actually mentioning the locations that I write about--in fact, this is the first time I've done so--but if you've never heard of the Kenai, you need the tip more than I need the place to myself.

The Russian is a too popular tributary of the Kenai, flowing in from the south and providing convenient access for hoards of tourists and over-zealous Anchoragites.  (Hmmm.  Anchoragite.  Is that even a word?)

Normally, it's exactly the type of place that I avoid.  Combat fishing has never been my forte.  However, since the tourists are gone and the locals are light weights in the cooler fall weather, we were one of three vehicles in the parking lot.  A boardwalk down to the river (complete with signs about fishing techniques that reduce stream bank erosion and monofilament waste baskets) reminded us of where we were.  All in all, it wasn't too crowded this past weekend; but I'd hate to be there in peak season.

Despite the industrial nature of the place, things were looking up.  We began to spread out and, as usual, I immediately began wading farther than necessary.  There's nothing like taking that extra step out into fast water to make you think you have the edge. 

I was fishing a deep riffle just above an island--the sort of place you envision monster trout lurking.  Unfortunately, after fishing for a little while and hooking into a very strong coho, the location also proved to be the sort of place where a fish could turn away from you, work it's way around the point of the island and into the main current, and out-muscle a stiff 8-weight without much effort.  I thought about giving it the Paul Maclean treatment, but declined.

Realizing I'd been whipped, I returned to the group to see how everyone else was faring.

As a greenhorn of sorts, Emily is just starting her fly fishing conquests.  Of course, she landed the first fish. 

I'm not sure this was Emily's first rodeo, but she hadn't caught many fish on a fly rod.  It doesn't get much better than hooking a fish when you have no idea what to do next.  I couldn't figure out who had a better time of it--Emily certainly enjoyed things, but I might give Derek the edge.  He could have blown a gasket watching his wife bring in a fish.

Although the fishing was a bit difficult, we caught fish.  Beads and flesh flies are the standard around here, but I had most of my success on the same streamers I'd been fishing all fall.

After spending most of the day on the water, by late afternoon we were ready to return to the cabin and refuel.  Who says dogs aren't allowed on the furniture?

Our second day on the water was fairly brief.  I did manage to get a really nice rainbow (around 20-22 inches) which I, of course, have no photographic evidence of.  This time, after fishing the local beads with little more than a handful of rejections, I turned to one of my trusty pheasant tails.  Nothing like bucking the norm and going with what you're comfortable with.

In the end, we managed to fish a classic stream--one which normally is overrun with meat fishers and hardware chuckers--and nearly had the place to ourselves.   It doesn't get much better than fishing good water over big fish with your dog by your side--even if the fish are making you work.